The Writing Girl
"Dear Miss Mirela..."
Personal Text
Middle Class
Rank
Advice Columnist
Involuntary Maid
Occupation
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euphoria
Offline
she / her
Tag me @thewriter
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Post by Mirela Camden on Jan 22, 2022 4:58:50 GMT
[attr="class","cbg"] [attr="class","cbgtop"] [attr="class","cimg"] [attr="class","clbox"] [attr="class","ctopline"]if you dream a thing once or more [attr="class","cscript"] ❀ it is sure to come true ❀ [attr="class","cline"] [attr="class","cbody"] Hearing him say that she should not be sorry for this further provided her with some comfort. For he was a fairly straightforward man; surely he would not say it if it were not true . . . or if he at least did not believe it. She gave a slight half smile when he suggested that the man be horsewhipped. "It is well and good that he did," she stated looking up at him. "For I would rather be here than anywhere near him." She had rather he leave her out here, than force his hands or lips upon her. She took his hand and moved towards the horse, staring at the beast. She was, not entirely comfortable on horses and carriages gave her enough of a fright. Though she was well aware that she had little other choice, and it would be the only way back to the city. Trying to mentally prepare for it, she slipped her foot into the stirrup and hoisted herself up with his assistance, moving her legs over to one side and tying the ribbon under her hat to keep it in place. He then spoke of taking her home and offering to help explain the situation. "No, no," she quickly responded, perhaps a little too adamantly.
"I just . . . what I mean to say that I do not think my brother will understand," she elaborated. And he would not. He would not understand her going off with a man, and he would not understand her coming home with Tobias Knightly. "I thank you for your offer," she added on gratefully. "But perhaps if you can drop me at your printing press, I can make it home from there." It was not too far of a walk and it was a neutral space. Feeling the horse slightly move, she sharply inhaled, her hand gripping the saddle or whatever part of it she could reach. As he also got onto the horse behind her, she felt a little bit more comfortable with some support, though was still struggling to still the nerves in the pit of her stomach. Though immediately distracted as a thought entered her mind. It was something that he had said; something that suddenly occurred to her and curiosity flickered in her gaze as she turned her head a little in attempt to face Tobias. "What do you mean dealt with?" Mister Knightly had said the cad will be dealt with . . . what did he mean by that?! [googlefont=Dancing Script][newclass=.cbg]width:400px;background:#000000;padding:30px;[/newclass][newclass=.cbgtop]width:400px;height:120px;text-align:left;[/newclass][newclass=.cimg]float:left;width:100px;height:100px;padding:10px;border:1px #aaa solid;[/newclass][newclass=.clbox]float:right;height:100px;margin:15px 5px auto auto;text-align:justify;width:257px;[/newclass][newclass=.ctopline]font-size:9px;letter-spacing:2px;text-transform:uppercase;font-family:verdana;color:#aaa;[/newclass][newclass=.cscript]font-size:23px;margin-top:-3px;font-family:Dancing Script;color:#e5b2ad;[/newclass][newclass=.cscript span]color:#ccc;[/newclass][newclass=.cline]height:1px;background-color:#888;margin:3px auto;[/newclass][newclass=.clyrics]font-size:8px;letter-spacing:1px;text-transform:uppercase;text-align:justify;font-family:verdana;color:#999;[/newclass][newclass=.cbody]font-family:verdana;color:#999;font-size:10px;text-align:justify;line-height:14px;letter-spacing:0.5px;[/newclass][newclass=.cnotes]font-size:9px;letter-spacing:1px;text-align:center;opacity:0.8;[/newclass][newclass=.cred]text-align:center;font-size:6pt;color:rgb(132, 132, 132);letter-spacing:1px;font-family:verdana;[/newclass][newclass=.cred a]color:rgb(132, 132, 132);font-size:6pt;letter-spacing:1px;font-family:verdana;[/newclass]
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The Writing Girl
"Dear Miss Mirela..."
Personal Text
Middle Class
Rank
Advice Columnist
Involuntary Maid
Occupation
|
euphoria
Offline
she / her
Tag me @thewriter
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Post by Mirela Camden on Jan 22, 2022 3:41:52 GMT
[attr="class","cbg"] [attr="class","cbgtop"] [attr="class","cimg"] [attr="class","clbox"] [attr="class","ctopline"]if you dream a thing once or more [attr="class","cscript"] ❀ it is sure to come true ❀ [attr="class","cline"] [attr="class","cbody"] How ironic life was. So many times Mirela dreamed -- more often that she should probably admit -- how it would feel to be in his arms. How it would feel for her to be pressed against his chest in a strong embrace. It had after all, been a rather focused goal of hers. But now that the moment was here, she had nearly forgotten about all her previously failed attempts. Those same feelings of comfort and security grew stronger and her shoulders once stiff, now relaxed as she leaned against him, his strength becoming her pillar. She closed her eyes and let out a heavy breath, resting her face against him while trying to ensure she did not stain his clothing with her tears. Tears served as no purpose right now and . . . she really should not have been crying! But whatever she did feel, all that shame and embarrassment, that fear and panic . . . ebbed away while she felt his arms around her and his reassuring words saying that she was safe now. It was all she needed in this exact moment. And she selfishly allowed herself to indulge in it for as long as he would offer it.
All that time of longing . . . now seemed to be when she needed it the most. Her arms felt limp as her body sought his support, feeling as if she could sleep in this moment despite her standing position. It was incredible how comfort could overtake one so quickly from distress. "I'm sorry," she breathed, barley audible. Had it been her plan, she would not have apologized for the thrill of knowing that he had been looking for her and worried about her. But as authentic as the ordeal was, she felt that pang of guilt for worrying him. The genuine tone of his words revealing as much. She was unsure of how much time had passed but knew that she had to ease from this needed moment, as she titled her head upward a little to look at him, keeping the close distance between them. "Can you please, take me back to the city?" He could not take her home. She could not risk her brother finding out about him. The city would do. It would rest her feet and allow her to walk the rest of the distance home. Compared to this walk, it would surely be nothing.
[googlefont=Dancing Script][newclass=.cbg]width:400px;background:#000000;padding:30px;[/newclass][newclass=.cbgtop]width:400px;height:120px;text-align:left;[/newclass][newclass=.cimg]float:left;width:100px;height:100px;padding:10px;border:1px #aaa solid;[/newclass][newclass=.clbox]float:right;height:100px;margin:15px 5px auto auto;text-align:justify;width:257px;[/newclass][newclass=.ctopline]font-size:9px;letter-spacing:2px;text-transform:uppercase;font-family:verdana;color:#aaa;[/newclass][newclass=.cscript]font-size:23px;margin-top:-3px;font-family:Dancing Script;color:#e5b2ad;[/newclass][newclass=.cscript span]color:#ccc;[/newclass][newclass=.cline]height:1px;background-color:#888;margin:3px auto;[/newclass][newclass=.clyrics]font-size:8px;letter-spacing:1px;text-transform:uppercase;text-align:justify;font-family:verdana;color:#999;[/newclass][newclass=.cbody]font-family:verdana;color:#999;font-size:10px;text-align:justify;line-height:14px;letter-spacing:0.5px;[/newclass][newclass=.cnotes]font-size:9px;letter-spacing:1px;text-align:center;opacity:0.8;[/newclass][newclass=.cred]text-align:center;font-size:6pt;color:rgb(132, 132, 132);letter-spacing:1px;font-family:verdana;[/newclass][newclass=.cred a]color:rgb(132, 132, 132);font-size:6pt;letter-spacing:1px;font-family:verdana;[/newclass]
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The Writing Girl
"Dear Miss Mirela..."
Personal Text
Middle Class
Rank
Advice Columnist
Involuntary Maid
Occupation
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euphoria
Offline
she / her
Tag me @thewriter
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Post by Mirela Camden on Jan 22, 2022 0:05:51 GMT
[attr="class","cbg"] [attr="class","cbgtop"] [attr="class","cimg"] [attr="class","clbox"] [attr="class","ctopline"]if you dream a thing once or more [attr="class","cscript"] ❀ it is sure to come true ❀ [attr="class","cline"] [attr="class","cbody"] Yes! That was it! Mister Knightly! Though she doubted she would have remembered with all else he was saying. To hear that the letter had been handed around made her suddenly feel rather . . . self conscious. While she wrote it with confidence and sureness, to know that so many eyes had fallen upon it was, nerve wracking. Was she in trouble for something written in it? Should she be apologizing for it? His mother found it?! . . . She did not know his mother. But the thought of it was, worrisome. She parted her lips to start bringing to voice all these questions but he continued with compliments that just made her freeze with surprise. Belatedly realizing that her lips were still parted and awkwardly closed them as his words processed in her mind. He thought she was witty? He thought her words were inviting? He thought it made her relatable as a friend? She had never heard such praise from a stranger and she was rather . . . surprised! And honored! Flattered! Touched! So many different emotions raced through her and she had to wonder if he was truly speaking in earnest.
"Yes!" She almost immediately answered when he asked her if it was truly her who had written these words. She hardly realized the potential offense in the question for she was too struck by the compliments he offered her. "They were solely written by me and . . . I did not intend for anyone else to read it." She was not sure why she was saying that; perhaps because there was an apology in her words for what she wrote, even though he complimented them. Mirela was just, overwhelmed with this feeling of . . . flattery. Hubris was most unattractive but there was a sense of pride within her that she could not deny. "But I swear to you that they are my own. And I, presume this was written by you?" She both stated and asked as she held up the letter that she had written to him. "I fear I still do not understand the significance of this letter." She paused for a moment. "My letter that is, not yours. I understand the purpose of yours but what importance does mine hold?" She still was not connecting things together and well, she was still basking in his compliments and was trying to focus on the present rather than letting her mind simply soar with elation.
[googlefont=Dancing Script][newclass=.cbg]width:400px;background:#000000;padding:30px;[/newclass][newclass=.cbgtop]width:400px;height:120px;text-align:left;[/newclass][newclass=.cimg]float:left;width:100px;height:100px;padding:10px;border:1px #aaa solid;[/newclass][newclass=.clbox]float:right;height:100px;margin:15px 5px auto auto;text-align:justify;width:257px;[/newclass][newclass=.ctopline]font-size:9px;letter-spacing:2px;text-transform:uppercase;font-family:verdana;color:#aaa;[/newclass][newclass=.cscript]font-size:23px;margin-top:-3px;font-family:Dancing Script;color:#e5b2ad;[/newclass][newclass=.cscript span]color:#ccc;[/newclass][newclass=.cline]height:1px;background-color:#888;margin:3px auto;[/newclass][newclass=.clyrics]font-size:8px;letter-spacing:1px;text-transform:uppercase;text-align:justify;font-family:verdana;color:#999;[/newclass][newclass=.cbody]font-family:verdana;color:#999;font-size:10px;text-align:justify;line-height:14px;letter-spacing:0.5px;[/newclass][newclass=.cnotes]font-size:9px;letter-spacing:1px;text-align:center;opacity:0.8;[/newclass][newclass=.cred]text-align:center;font-size:6pt;color:rgb(132, 132, 132);letter-spacing:1px;font-family:verdana;[/newclass][newclass=.cred a]color:rgb(132, 132, 132);font-size:6pt;letter-spacing:1px;font-family:verdana;[/newclass]
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The Writing Girl
"Dear Miss Mirela..."
Personal Text
Middle Class
Rank
Advice Columnist
Involuntary Maid
Occupation
|
euphoria
Offline
she / her
Tag me @thewriter
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Post by Mirela Camden on Jan 21, 2022 23:39:51 GMT
[attr="class","cbg"] [attr="class","cbgtop"] [attr="class","cimg"] [attr="class","clbox"] [attr="class","ctopline"]if you dream a thing once or more [attr="class","cscript"] ❀ it is sure to come true ❀ [attr="class","cline"] [attr="class","cbody"] It had been many years since Mirela had felt the comfort of any man's hands on her. And the last time she felt safe with a man, was her father. Her brother was . . . well, her brother. And men's attentions were not something she was accustomed to, or at least to the point of touches. Mister Cooper's own had certainly been unwanted, but Mister Knightly's was not. It made her feel grounded. Secure. Safe. And in all her attempts to seduce him, right now was not one of them. Right now, she just felt genuine appreciation that he was here even if she did not look presentable. Even if he should be the last person here, she felt better with him here. Perhaps later tonight or tomorrow the magnitude of his words would sink in where he had told her that he was looking for her. The flattery of them, the idea that she was important enough to him for him to look at her -- her naivety believing that this concern exceeded whatever profit she provided in the success of his lucrative paper. But for the moment, for right now . . . she just wanted to allow herself to feel safe.
Her wide eyes continued to look at him, stiff in position. She inwardly cursed when she could feel her vision become misty, as her eyes moistened with tears though managed to keep them from falling. He was asking her a direct question . . . a few questions. In a tone that she dare not sidestep the response again. Yet, how much truth should she provide? "N-No," she told him when he asked if she needed a doctor. Her pride was wounded. Her honor. She felt so foolish! Perhaps the only markings would be the blisters but other than that, all damage was internal. "He was . . . " She looked away again suddenly feel overwhelmed by everything. The ordeal, and the exhaustion starting to take over which was seeping into her emotional state. "I was . . . " Her voice holding that same ridiculous squeak as it was earlier, continuing to try and swallow back everything. But, she could not.
"I was riding with him and we were talking and suddenly he wanted a kiss and his hands were on me and I didn't know what was happening and I told him to stop, and he would not stop and I made my hat blow away and I promised to kiss him if he let me down but I did not get back on the seat and he grew angry and he rode off and I threw a rock at him!" Everything had come out all at once, suddenly, practically in one breath, as she shakily exhaled. A single tear fell down her cheek and hearing it all out loud, made her feel even more embarrassed. Made her feel more foolish. Everyone would think she was foolish for this! "And now . . . I am walking!" With that, she shifted her body to loosen from his grasp enough to make attempt to walk past him. Because whether she would admit it or not, she was too ashamed and humiliated to look at him and to see how he would react to her answer to his question.
[googlefont=Dancing Script][newclass=.cbg]width:400px;background:#000000;padding:30px;[/newclass][newclass=.cbgtop]width:400px;height:120px;text-align:left;[/newclass][newclass=.cimg]float:left;width:100px;height:100px;padding:10px;border:1px #aaa solid;[/newclass][newclass=.clbox]float:right;height:100px;margin:15px 5px auto auto;text-align:justify;width:257px;[/newclass][newclass=.ctopline]font-size:9px;letter-spacing:2px;text-transform:uppercase;font-family:verdana;color:#aaa;[/newclass][newclass=.cscript]font-size:23px;margin-top:-3px;font-family:Dancing Script;color:#e5b2ad;[/newclass][newclass=.cscript span]color:#ccc;[/newclass][newclass=.cline]height:1px;background-color:#888;margin:3px auto;[/newclass][newclass=.clyrics]font-size:8px;letter-spacing:1px;text-transform:uppercase;text-align:justify;font-family:verdana;color:#999;[/newclass][newclass=.cbody]font-family:verdana;color:#999;font-size:10px;text-align:justify;line-height:14px;letter-spacing:0.5px;[/newclass][newclass=.cnotes]font-size:9px;letter-spacing:1px;text-align:center;opacity:0.8;[/newclass][newclass=.cred]text-align:center;font-size:6pt;color:rgb(132, 132, 132);letter-spacing:1px;font-family:verdana;[/newclass][newclass=.cred a]color:rgb(132, 132, 132);font-size:6pt;letter-spacing:1px;font-family:verdana;[/newclass]
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The Writing Girl
"Dear Miss Mirela..."
Personal Text
Middle Class
Rank
Advice Columnist
Involuntary Maid
Occupation
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euphoria
Offline
she / her
Tag me @thewriter
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Post by Mirela Camden on Jan 21, 2022 19:57:40 GMT
[attr="class","cbg"] [attr="class","cbgtop"] [attr="class","cimg"] [attr="class","clbox"] [attr="class","ctopline"]if you dream a thing once or more [attr="class","cscript"] ❀ it is sure to come true ❀ [attr="class","cline"] [attr="class","cbody"] Mirela felt her steps slow and become more drawn out. While her determination was there, her energy levels were declining rapidly. Her arms hung by her sides, her shoulders slightly slouched. She knew her brother was going to be enraged when she finally returned home and right now, all she could think of was cleaning herself and curling up into her bed to remain undisturbed after todays ordeals. Yet . . . in order for that to happen, she had to get to her destination which, seemed impossible at this pace. There was no end to the road ahead though she was well aware that it had to eventually yet. It just seemed, endless! She did not even have the strength to think of words. Rather ironic considering her paid occupation. She had thought herself crazy when she heard the sound of a horse approaching. Fear immediately captured her upon the chance that it was Mister Cooper to, to finish what he attempted to start. Daring to turn around, she blinked a few times to see that it certainly was not Mister Cooper. Despite the distance -- and the considerable speed at which he was approaching -- it was Mister Knightly. No matter how far he was to her eyes, she would always recognize him. Though this, was a moment she was not prepared to see him.
She quickly turned her head forward again, straightening her shoulders and quickly wiping her cheek of whatever dirt was there, unable to even see if it was to any avail. She ran her hand over her hair, feeling the ribbons she wore in having loosened. She was a mess! And he was going to find her in this state. Perhaps he would not actually see her for she certainly had not even considered the thought that he was looking for her. And yet, this place was without any other population. Swallowing, she kept walking and walking until she heard him approach and take her arm. It prompted her to turn though her gaze was downcast, avoiding his as she braced herself. His touch was a far more welcoming one but in this moment . . . she was not even thinking of such a thing. Despite the immediate comfort that coursed through her body to feel him, and have him near. Slowly she raised her eyes to meet his, attempting to gather whatever semblance of pride was left after what had happened. Though they darted from him, to the side, looking at the same nothingness she felt as if she was looking at for ages. "I . . . " Her voice came out in a slightly squeakier and more strained tone than she would have liked.
She bit her bottom lip for a moment as if to silence her voice until having some control over its tone. Oh this was not the plan at all! He was meant to see her looking well presented and sitting next to another man! Not . . . so disheveled and disarrayed while trudging through the road. This was humiliating! Turning back to him, she just stared wide eyed at his expression. "I am walking." Obviously. Which, he clearly knew and . . . she was attempting to understand what she saw in his expression for it was quite unfamiliar to her as was his raised tone. Was he angry at her?! Mirela was quite accustomed to being around angry men. Perhaps it was deserved but it was, none the less, utterly embarrassing. "There was . . . " A man who had tried to touch her and kiss her and . . . "I did not enjoy my previous company," she admitted to him, hating to admit it for it had been her choice. And a choice meant to capture the attention of the very man who stood before her. But, certainly not in this way![googlefont=Dancing Script][newclass=.cbg]width:400px;background:#000000;padding:30px;[/newclass][newclass=.cbgtop]width:400px;height:120px;text-align:left;[/newclass][newclass=.cimg]float:left;width:100px;height:100px;padding:10px;border:1px #aaa solid;[/newclass][newclass=.clbox]float:right;height:100px;margin:15px 5px auto auto;text-align:justify;width:257px;[/newclass][newclass=.ctopline]font-size:9px;letter-spacing:2px;text-transform:uppercase;font-family:verdana;color:#aaa;[/newclass][newclass=.cscript]font-size:23px;margin-top:-3px;font-family:Dancing Script;color:#e5b2ad;[/newclass][newclass=.cscript span]color:#ccc;[/newclass][newclass=.cline]height:1px;background-color:#888;margin:3px auto;[/newclass][newclass=.clyrics]font-size:8px;letter-spacing:1px;text-transform:uppercase;text-align:justify;font-family:verdana;color:#999;[/newclass][newclass=.cbody]font-family:verdana;color:#999;font-size:10px;text-align:justify;line-height:14px;letter-spacing:0.5px;[/newclass][newclass=.cnotes]font-size:9px;letter-spacing:1px;text-align:center;opacity:0.8;[/newclass][newclass=.cred]text-align:center;font-size:6pt;color:rgb(132, 132, 132);letter-spacing:1px;font-family:verdana;[/newclass][newclass=.cred a]color:rgb(132, 132, 132);font-size:6pt;letter-spacing:1px;font-family:verdana;[/newclass]
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The Writing Girl
"Dear Miss Mirela..."
Personal Text
Middle Class
Rank
Advice Columnist
Involuntary Maid
Occupation
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euphoria
Offline
she / her
Tag me @thewriter
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Post by Mirela Camden on Jan 21, 2022 19:21:56 GMT
[attr="class","cbg"] [attr="class","cbgtop"] [attr="class","cimg"] [attr="class","clbox"] [attr="class","ctopline"]if you dream a thing once or more [attr="class","cscript"] ❀ it is sure to come true ❀ [attr="class","cline"] [attr="class","cbody"] Mirela nodded as she asked if she was she and then he held up the paper. Mirela slightly leaned forward to look at what was written and her surprise grew even more! It had been a simple letter offering advice to a friend who had reached out. Why did he have that?! How did he obtain it?! Why was he showing interest in it?! Or in her?! Mirela was racking her mind trying to understand what was happening here. "Yes Sir," she answered simply, unable to mask the confusion from her tone. "How did you acquire it?" She almost instantly regretted the question, curiosity having prompted her to speak rather than accusation.
She tried to play over the words to ensure there was nothing offensive in them. Granted, they were filled with more bravado than her own verbal words could ever offer. Was the advice somehow linked to him? "I apologize," she added to amend her first question though, she did not entirely retract the inquiry. "But I do not understand how this is in your possession." Why and who gave it and . . . WHY?! She suddenly felt the need to sit so without being formally invited, she seated herself in the chair across from him, with only a desk between the two. It brought her to a closer position than standing near the door and . . . she had to distract herself from looking at him even more intently.
[googlefont=Dancing Script][newclass=.cbg]width:400px;background:#000000;padding:30px;[/newclass][newclass=.cbgtop]width:400px;height:120px;text-align:left;[/newclass][newclass=.cimg]float:left;width:100px;height:100px;padding:10px;border:1px #aaa solid;[/newclass][newclass=.clbox]float:right;height:100px;margin:15px 5px auto auto;text-align:justify;width:257px;[/newclass][newclass=.ctopline]font-size:9px;letter-spacing:2px;text-transform:uppercase;font-family:verdana;color:#aaa;[/newclass][newclass=.cscript]font-size:23px;margin-top:-3px;font-family:Dancing Script;color:#e5b2ad;[/newclass][newclass=.cscript span]color:#ccc;[/newclass][newclass=.cline]height:1px;background-color:#888;margin:3px auto;[/newclass][newclass=.clyrics]font-size:8px;letter-spacing:1px;text-transform:uppercase;text-align:justify;font-family:verdana;color:#999;[/newclass][newclass=.cbody]font-family:verdana;color:#999;font-size:10px;text-align:justify;line-height:14px;letter-spacing:0.5px;[/newclass][newclass=.cnotes]font-size:9px;letter-spacing:1px;text-align:center;opacity:0.8;[/newclass][newclass=.cred]text-align:center;font-size:6pt;color:rgb(132, 132, 132);letter-spacing:1px;font-family:verdana;[/newclass][newclass=.cred a]color:rgb(132, 132, 132);font-size:6pt;letter-spacing:1px;font-family:verdana;[/newclass]
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The Writing Girl
"Dear Miss Mirela..."
Personal Text
Middle Class
Rank
Advice Columnist
Involuntary Maid
Occupation
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euphoria
Offline
she / her
Tag me @thewriter
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Post by Mirela Camden on Jan 21, 2022 18:36:33 GMT
[attr="class","cbg"] [attr="class","cbgtop"] [attr="class","cimg"] [attr="class","clbox"] [attr="class","ctopline"]if you dream a thing once or more [attr="class","cscript"] ❀ it is sure to come true ❀ [attr="class","cline"] [attr="class","cbody"] Mirela often had a plan. And her plans . . . seldom landed her success .But never the less, she was determined and not one to quit. The latest advice she had been given in her attempts to woo and seduce her superior was centered around jealousy. With the rising popularity of her column, Mirela was being given attention she never had been in the past. It was both riveting and unsettling, but mostly the former. Women sought to speak to her and men looked at her. Actually, looked at her. It was flattering to say the least and Mirela would not trick her mind into believing otherwise. During such, attentions one particular gentleman had wished to take her for a ride in his phaeton. He was a handsome enough fellow but romantic interest was not what drove her, so to speak. Jealousy. Advice given was that in order to gain the attentions of a man one was interested in . . . was to gain and give the attentions of another. Through promenades or in this case, rides through the countryside. Surely Mister Knightly would find out about this -- he seemed to know about all going ons in the city --and it would surely, elicit a reaction from him! Yes. This was indeed the plan.
So that early afternoon, Mirela was dressed in one of her nicer dresses. With her growing income she was able to purchase a few nicer dresses and she wore it today, with her hat where the ribbon was tied under her chin to keep it in place, gloves to cover her hands and a pair of shoes that were fairly new. She was waiting near the park, a neutral location for him to pick her and though she knew the odds were low of seeing Mister Knightly, here gaze lingered every so often, more eager to see him than the man she was set to spend the afternoon with. She wanted Mister Knightly to see her like this, and she wanted Mister Knightly to see her with Mister Cooper. Much to her disappointment, Mister Cooper came first and Mirela's lips curled into a grin knowing that if nothing else, she could at least enjoy his company for a little while. After all, it would be nice to spend time with someone who showed an interest in her, romantic or not.
The ride had started pleasantly. The weather was most agreeable and they were journeying further and further from the city and into the countryside. The conversation was polite and amicable and Mirela found herself genuinely enjoying his company. But as they drew further from the city and into the less populated countryside, things took a turn. Mister Cooper started to make . . . unwanted advances. It started with a hand upon her knee which she promptly pushed away by "accidentally" brushing it off. His advances, became less subtle. He increased the speed of the horses until the phaeton was racing forward. She preferred phaetons in comparison to carriages for at least one could see their surroundings however . . . the speed of the horses caused her fears to re-emerge as she practically begged him to stop. He refused until she allowed him a kiss. A kiss?! Most certainly not! She did not wish to be kissed . . . by anyone right now! But he was stubborn, and kept persisting.
Taking advantage of his gaze in front of him, Mirela quickly untied her hat so that it blew off of her, exclaiming with panic that her hat was back there. It still did not convince him to cease the horses to a halt, but rather, made her promise that if he stopped to retrieve it, then she would allow him to properly kiss her. Mirela feared of what it would lead to . . . but right now, was in more fear for her life! And so, she agreed with having no intention of keeping to her word. When the horses finally stilled, Mirela felt herself out of breath from the sheer fear of what had just happened, her heart racing in her chest and yet, she would not waste a single moment. She practically leaped out of the carriage and ran back to retrieve the hat, holding it in her hand and walking past the phaeton. She could hear Mister Cooper call her a lying hussy, yet she refused to make eye contact with him. He followed behind her, making demands that she get back inside and she continued to outright refuse.
Her stubborn nature causing her to continue forward. Fortunately, he seemed to not think it worth it any longer and disgruntled with not getting his way -- or perhaps her wounding his pride -- he eventually rode past her, leaving a trail of dust which caused her to cough and wave it out of her face. She picked up a rock and threw it after him, though it did not even get close, yelling at him out of the anger and . . . fear she felt. Though she knew, she did not think this through. For the city was incredibly far and her shoes . . . were not designed for such long walks. Yet all she could do was move one foot in front of the other. Her dress was dirtied, her cheek stained with the same dirt and dust, her hair not as tamed as was when she left and her feet starting to blister from the long distance where there was seemingly no end in sight. This entire plan . . . had utterly failed.
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The Writing Girl
"Dear Miss Mirela..."
Personal Text
Middle Class
Rank
Advice Columnist
Involuntary Maid
Occupation
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euphoria
Offline
she / her
Tag me @thewriter
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Post by Mirela Camden on Jan 21, 2022 4:41:53 GMT
[attr="class","cbg"] [attr="class","cbgtop"] [attr="class","cimg"] [attr="class","clbox"] [attr="class","ctopline"]if you dream a thing once or more [attr="class","cscript"] ❀ it is sure to come true ❀ [attr="class","cline"] [attr="class","cbody"] Fortune was not the word Mirela would use to describe her current circumstances . . . but oh was it indeed most fortunate that she had just happened to be the one to receive the mail that day. She had not even made it into the house, as she gripped the letter with one hand and the broom in the other. Tucking it under her arm, she opened it, eyes widened as she read it over . . . and over . . . and over again. Until every part of it was memorized. Every stroke of the quill. To say that she was intrigued and curious and, so many other things was truly an understatement. She would have read it over a dozen more times had she sound of the door opening not altered her. Panic stricken for she did not wish for anyone else's eyes upon it, she glanced around her to find somewhere, anywhere to hide this precious paper that may as well be made of gold. Needing to think quickly -- which was not always Mirela's strong suit -- she acted most unladylike as she tucked the paper under her dress and against her bosom.
Just in time as she heard the voice of her brother telling her to hurry up so that she could get started on dinner. Scrunching her face at him -- another unladylike gesture, she glided the broom across the ground, purposely sweeping the dust over his shoes. He jumped back in annoyance and Mirela, withheld a smile. She was far too excited, and nervous to be bothered with her brother's demands. Never the less, she prepared dinner, cleaned up and hurried to her room. When she was certain not to be disturbed she gazed upon her dress. THE dress. Her one and only suitable dress for every woman should have one. It was the last gift her mother had given her and despite its simplicity, she adored it. She hardly slept that night due to anticipation and excitement. And of course nerves! What would the owner of a printing press desire from her?! The eagerness to find out made the hours of the night pass both slowly and quickly at the same time.
Mirela got up incredibly early that morning, cleaning herself, brushing her hair and donning her favourite dress. To complete it, she pulled out a hat that belonged to her mother; another sentimental item. Looking at herself in the mirror she took a deep breath before venturing to the establishment. Upon arriving she was instructed to wait while they announced her arrival to the owner: Mister Knightly. Her foot started tapping as the nervous energy was coming out and the look she received from another worker caused her to abruptly stop. The only way this was successful done was by placing her other foot on top of it which . . . created a rather awkward sitting position. Hearing her name she rose, the letter clutched in her hand as she was led to the room. Mister Knightly . . . Mister Knightly . . . Mister Knightly She shan't forget his name.
Mister Knightly . . . Mist-- Well, hellooo Mister Knightly! Mirela paused after having only taken one step into the room as she started at him. She had expected an elder man; the picture of age and experience having been perfectly formed in her mind. What she found instead was . . . not an old man. Not at all. He was young, and incredibly handsome and she was fairly certain this is what one's heart felt like when it fluttered. "Mister . . . " Blast it all! Mirela's eyes slightly widened with absolute horror! His well formed features distracted her, leaving her in awe and caused Mirela to completely forget his name! "Sir," she quickly corrected, knowing the damage was already done. "I received your letter." To come. And . . . here she was. And there he was. Yes . . . there he was indeed.
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The Writing Girl
"Dear Miss Mirela..."
Personal Text
Middle Class
Rank
Advice Columnist
Involuntary Maid
Occupation
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euphoria
Offline
she / her
Tag me @thewriter
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Post by Mirela Camden on Jan 21, 2022 3:54:38 GMT
| ~ • ~ | Character Basics | ~ • ~ |
.:Name:. Mirela Camden .:Nick Name:. Mirrie by her brother and she despises it .:Rank:. Middle Class .:Age:. 24
| ~ • ~ | Appearance | ~ • ~ |
.:Physical Appearance:. Mirela has long brown, wavy hair that extends well past her shoulders and back, with bangs covering her forehead. She is very light skinned with freckles dusted over her nose and upper cheeks. Her brother often made fun of this feature and to this day, her appearance is something she is rather insecure about. She dresses in attire fitting of her station, and does not often wear fancy gowns not only due to their cost, but also because she spends most of her days serving as a maid in her brother's household. .:Height:. 5"4' .:Portrayed by:. Gemma Arterton
| ~ • ~ | Personality | ~ • ~ |
.:Personality:. There are women of grace, poise and natural elegance . . . and then, there is Mirela. While she is not clumsy or uncoordinated, she has a quiet nature to her that one would assume is modesty and a reserved personality. When in reality, she is constantly planning thinking. Her mind is often racing with thoughts, ideas, and schemes. Not of the nefarious kind, but ones that involve the most ridiculous and convoluted attempts to get what she wants. And in reality, she is terrible at carrying out these plans. Never the less, she is often determined and stubborn to remain fixed to the goal no matter the measures that one must go to in order to attain it. Whether it be being incredibly frugal to save coin, or incredibly fixed on gaining the attentions of another individual.
Mirela used to be incredibly shy and keep to herself but ever since she started writing and people started to write to her for advice, capturing the attention of not only those within the same rank as her but those of the ton, her confidence began to grow. She became more ambitious with her goals in life and carried herself with more confidence and self assuredness. Despite this growth in character, she still has tendencies that others deem to be annoying -- mainly her family members or outspoken citizens -- such as tapping her foot or fingers. With her mind constantly at work, this energy is channeled through such mannerisms that she is not even always aware that she is doing whether its tapping or staring at someone while lost in thought.
At the core, Mirela has a good heart and she does have a caring side to her, as evidenced through her given tasks at the home in which she resides. She does not complain to others and finds it difficult to have that one person who serves as as true confidante . . . hence, her column in which she gains the advice of her own readers in very rare occasions. The popularity of the column and positive response allows Mirela to feel as if she finally has friends in her life. .:Skills:. Is excellent at giving advice that both grips and intrigues her readers -- albeit with a bit of sass to it at times --, her strong familiarity with ranks outside her own so that she can give said advice accordingly, the popularity of her column has allowed her to build fairly significant connections with people she would not otherwise have crossed paths with, building confidence which prompts her to carry her head a little higher and start to come out of her shell. .:Weaknesses:. Does not have a very large social circle outside of her column, has mannerisms that others find annoying particularly when lost in thought, while she is an avid planner her actual plans are often quite faulty, not highly educated and learned to read and write at a very late age, deeply insecure about her appearance, her 'old age' and being unmarried feeding into such insecurities as she worries that she is undesirable, also has a fear of carriages and horses.
| ~ • ~ | History | ~ • ~ | .:Birthplace:. England .:Family:. Parents deceased, brother, sister in law, nieces and nephews .:Occupation:. Advice Columnist, Involuntary Housemaid .:History:. Mirela was born in a simple family filled with love. It was only her and her older brother who . . . enjoyed teasing her quite a bit. While her parents always assured her it was out of love, Mirela never entirely believed it. She received a mediocre education, for her responsibilities were focused on that of one day being a good wife. She learned to cook, properly clean, and manage the small home that she was a part of. Her upbringing was easy, happy and rather uneventful. She was always a shy child and her brother's remarks about her caused her insecurities to build and develop. She did not have many friends and spent more of her time with her mother or on her own. It was not until Mirela reached the age of 17 that she would be faced with the most devastating news of her life -- even more devastating than not being married at such an age. Her parents were in a carriage accident. Neither of them made it and the news devastated Mirela. She was forced to move into her brother's home, who was married and had children . . . where she became an unofficial maid.
She was perceived as the Spinster Aunt with no prospects of marriage, as her brother and sister in law often reminded her. Eager to build a life of her own, alone or not, she sought out work and found herself at a printing press, fulfilling a unique need by developing an advice column. Her words seemed to capture those in the city as it started generating interest and people would write in to her article Dear Miss Mirela, to which she would respond with gripping advice and eloquently strung words. With its success and the owner's willingness to allow her to continue on this path, she began to save up coin -- which she keeps hidden in a floorboard in her small room at her brother's residence. She has kept this a secret from her brother and his family, knowing he would disapprove of her building independence and her focus on work rather than any focus on finding a husband.
One day, she plans on moving out and finding her own way . . . but first, she must capture the heart of a man who has captured hers.
| ~ • ~ | Member Info | ~ • ~ |
.:Name or Online Alias:. euphoria .:Your Pronouns:. she/her .:Are you 18+:. yes .:How Did You Find Us:. make it stop!
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